Chapter 1 - The Woman Who Saved His Son
Z “It's Just Paint,” She Said About Her Wrist — The Mafia Boss Followed Her to the Night Pharmacy “It’s just paint,” Marin said, pressing the stained rag against her wrist. The boy she had pulled from traffic was screaming in his father’s arms. Only later did she learn he had not made a sound in two years. Marin Holloway saw the boy in the diner window before she saw him in the street. She was four rungs up a ladder, finishing the gold outline around Rosalia’s Famous Chicken Parm, when his reflection moved behind the lettering. A small terrier darted between two parked cars. The boy followed. Then came the gray car. Marin dropped the brush. Her feet struck the pavement hard enough to send pain through both knees. She reached the curb as the car entered the intersection, caught the back of the boy’s hood, and pulled. They fell together. His shoulder hit her chest. Her supply crate overturned beneath them, and the glass paint jar broke against the sidewalk. For a moment, she heard nothing. Then the boy screamed. Doors opened along Atwells Avenue. A waiter ran out carrying a napkin. Someone shouted the car’s description, though its taillights had already disappeared. Marin held the boy against her. “You’re here,” she said. “You’re here.” He was small, perhaps seven, with one shoe missing and both hands twisted into her jacket. Four men emerged from Rosalia’s. Behind them came a man in a dark overcoat. The others moved quickly. He moved directly. “Noah.” He knelt, and the boy turned toward him with a sound Marin felt through her ribs. “Noah, I’ve got you.” Marin released him carefully. The man gathered his son against his chest, one hand covering the back of the boy’s head. Only then did Marin notice her wrist. She wrapped it with a drop cloth before anyone else could look. Crimson stained her jeans, her sleeves, the pavement. Most of it came from the broken jar. Most. “You’re hurt,” the father said. “It’s just paint.” His eyes settled on the cloth. A drop fell. Then another. He watched. Marin began collecting brushes with her good hand. “Freddy,” the man said. One of the others approached with folded bills. Marin stepped back. “No, thank you.” “You were hurt helping my son.” “I was hurt by a car that didn’t stop.” She looked toward Noah. He had stopped screaming. His face was hidden against his father’s coat. “Have someone check him.” “They will.” “Good.” She shouldered her kit. The ladder remained against the window. She could not manage it. Nine blocks away, Harmon’s Pharmacy was still open. Marin counted eleven dollars and eighty-three cents onto the counter. She put back the more expensive supplies and tried to steady her hand while the pharmacist watched the cloth around her wrist. “That needs proper attention.” “I know.” The bell above the door rang. The pharmacist looked up. His expression changed. Marin turned. The boy’s father stood inside, rain shining on his shoulders. “Did you follow me?” “Yes.” “Why?” He looked at her wrist. “Because you said it was paint.” The pharmacist leaned toward her. “Miss,” he whispered, “that’s Gideon Rourke.” Marin knew the name. Everyone in Providence knew the name. The waterfront. The quiet rooms. The men who seemed important until he entered. She looked back at him. “I’m not your business, Mr. Rourke.” “No,” he said. He approached the counter but stopped beyond her reach. “My son has been silent for two years.” Marin’s fingers closed around the coins. “He screamed tonight.” “I heard.” “So did I.” For the first time, the man’s voice faltered. “I needed to know whether the person who brought him back was going to walk away and disappear.” Marin looked at the stained cloth. Then at him. “What do you want?” Gideon took a plain card from his pocket. “Come paint his wall.”
```
